


comparative.

by DictionaryWrites



Series: The Dashing Collected [6]
Category: Marvel
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Power Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 10:58:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15684057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: Loki and Fandral, with their respective Elders, are in many ways mirrors of one another.In many other ways, they are not.





	comparative.

“Can I have some?” Fandral asks, and Taneleer laughs, the sound condescending and airy. Loki lies back on the couch, his legs sprawled over the Grandmaster’s lap and his his fingers delicately curling through his hair, playing with the silver locks. The Grandmaster is smiling, but his eyes are closed, and he leans back into Loki’s hand as if it offers him the most bliss he’s ever experienced, as if this morning he weren’t flaying the skin from Loki’s thighs and laughing as he screamed. Loki takes the hookah pipe directly from his hand, and the Grandmaster opens his lidded eyes just to watch Loki take a long, slow drag, tasting the thick odour of the urzt weed in his mouth, musky and distantly salty. 

“I don’t know,” Taneleer says, and he exhales a cloud of deeply green smoke through his pale nostrils, looking down at Fandral with an imperial amusement. Fandral is on his knees, settled between Taneleer’s parted legs, his hands on Taneleer’s thighs, and he looks at Taneleer with the most  _pathetic_  eagerness, with desire. “ _Can_  you?”

“May I?”

“You may touch me,” Taneleer allows, his tone magnanimous. 

“ _Taneleer_ ,” Fandral scolds, and he slides upward. Loki watches him, mildly amused, as he winds his arms around Taneleer’s neck, coaxing the other man into a kiss: Taneleer kisses him slowly, letting Fandral take control, but not  _really_  letting him take control. When they drag their mouths apart, however, Loki can see the affection shining in Fandral’s eyes, the  _delight_  at being so…

Loki is discomfited. 

It is one thing, Loki thinks, to be a pet, and to be drawn in unwillingly, to be shaped into it piece-by-piece, as  _he_  has been, to allow oneself to relax into the role the universe has dictated for one, but… Fandral embraces Taneleer like a lover, like he has  _always_  wanted him.

And, judging by the expression on Taneleer’s face, the slight quirk of his lips, the barest sparkle in his eyes–

“Here,” Taneleer murmurs, and he offers the pipe: Fandral takes it, and he inhales at the pipe, his pretty lips parted about its golden nozzle. Loki watches the bubble of the urzt weed in the attached bottle, over a small flame, and then Fandral catches Taneleer by the jaw, blowing smoke directly into his mouth.

It’s a curiously intimate gesture, strangely loving in its movements, in the subtle choreography: the tilt of Taneleer’s head and the part of his lips, the doe-eyed warmth in Fandral’s eyes, the  _tenderness_  of it all. So sweet.

Loki feels jealousy, green and molten, bubble in his chest, an echo formed in sympathy, perhaps, to the boil of the urzt weed on the table. Why should Fandral settle with such ease, such pleasure, into this interaction he has with Taneleer Tivan,  _the Collector_? Why should it be so easy for him, when Loki’s own should come with such agony, when it should–

“Baby,” the Grandmaster whispers, and his breath is hot against the shell of Loki’s ear, his fingers playing delicately over Loki’s neck. Loki is a fool for leaning into it, for enjoying its beautiful heat: Loki is a fool, where the Grandmaster is concerned. “You don’t like sweet things, don’t you– don’t you remember? You  _like_  the bitter, and the, um, the sharp. What would you do with something sweet, if you had it?”

“Spit it out,” Loki replies. The jealousy ceases to seethe within him, and instead, he feels a deep satisfaction: a satisfaction he allows to prompt him to bite his way into the Grandmaster’s mouth, dragging his teeth over the other man’s lip, tasting the starry-sky taint of his blood on Loki’s tongue.

Bitter.

Loki smiles, and the Grandmaster laughs against his mouth, tightening his hand in Loki’s hair and dragging him closer, closer. 

Yes.

This  _is_  what he likes - the Grandmaster, damn him ( _Loki is a fool)_  is right. 

**Author's Note:**

> [Hit me up on Tumblr](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/faq). Requests always open.


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